


The Shadow on the Stone

by BlueJay26



Series: Poetry and Birds [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Andrew Minyard, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Libraries, M/M, Mild Blood, POV Andrew Minyard, Poetry, This took a darker turn than i wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26191528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueJay26/pseuds/BlueJay26
Summary: A look into Andrew's history with poetry.Disclaimer: the title is from one of Thomas Hardy's poems. Also, there are metaphors (oh the horror!)
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: Poetry and Birds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888687
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	The Shadow on the Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I'm keeping to my word and updating. Surprise guys!!
> 
> I would encourage you to read the poems mentioned in this, I loved them.

The first poem he read was 'The Darkling Thrush'. He remembers thinking that there had been someone, ages ago, who had understood him. Thomas Hardy, he repeated the name to himself on the way home from the library. That night, he snuck into his foster mother's office and looked him up. He had written novels as well as poems. 

The next day when he asked the librarian for one of his books, she patted his cheek and said he was too young for it. He remembered flinching from her touch. She didn't try to touch him after that.

She gave him a book of poems, supposedly more suited to his age. He read the first one, and wondered how anyone could call this poetry after reading a poem like 'The Darkling Thrush'.

He put the book away, and when the librarian's back was turned, he snuck a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets into his backpack. He was even more disappointed by those. Did everyone write poems about love and happiness? Why write about non-existent emotions? Was Thomas Hardy an exception?

He gave up on ever finding another poet who would understand him, who would reach out through the pages and touch his soul. Hold it and say, you and I, we are the same. No matter that I'm long dead, and you might as well be, we are kindred spirits.

So he kept searching for poems by Thomas Hardy. The next one he found was 'The Shadow on the Stone'. He thought he understood the way Hardy wanted to cling onto the shred of hope that the druid was real. It wasn't until years later, when Andrew met a druid of his own, that he started to think, maybe She was real, but so precious to the poet that he hoarded her jealously.

He knew the librarian, Ms Julia, was turning a blind eye on his perusal of the poetry section. She never said anything, but every once in a while, a book of poetry would appear near the chair where he sat. Each time, he looked at her, and she winked and put a finger to her lips. 

He stayed up late most reading them, and by his next visit to the library he had memorised almost all of them. Two weeks into his reading spree, his foster parents decided they'd had enough of him and threw him back in the system.

Ms Julia came up to him on his last visit to the library. She sat next to him with a box of tissues, pretending not to see the tears he viciously scrubbed away. She put her hand on the table, palm up, giving him a choice he'd never had before. He clung to it with all his might, because maybe if he held tight enough he wouldn't have to leave.

 _Andrew_ , she said, _I don't know what you've seen, I don't know what you're going to see. I can't guarantee life will ever be easy. But there are things in life that help people like us to endure. One of those is poetry. Keep it close to you. You can rely on it in a way you can never rely on people. I'm sorry I can't do more._

And he remembers replying, _you have done enough._

She had nodded and gone back to her desk, leaving a brown notebook behind. The flyleaf of the book said, "keep it close, Julia Henderson"

As a child, Andrew always hoped things would get better. As a teen, that belief was thrown out of the window. As an adult, he can look back and see that they did get better, even more than he could have hoped for.

From then on, wherever he went, he found a library he could go to. He discovered the poets that Ms Julia had showed him had barely scratched the surface of wistful poetry.

Seeing the notebook in Neil's hand had shocked him for a moment, there was no way he hadn't destroyed this on his rampage just before he went to juvie. Now, he stands outside, outlining the story as vaguely as he can, knowing Neil will understand why he won't go into detail. Neil stands quietly, offering support that resembles a bony hand placed on a table so long ago.

Neil takes him back inside, and they finish up as quickly as they can. Andrew can't help but glance at Neil on the drive home, can't help but wonder how he turned and found his druid there. He wonders at his luck, no more than when Neil mutters, _staring,_ in a teasing tone.

As he got older, he used the library as a hiding place, from both the bullies at school and the bully at home. He had cut a slit into the bottom of his school bag, and there sat a worn notebook, almost falling to pieces. 

The librarian there wasn't like Ms. Julia, she didn't trust the vagabond he was. The vagabond that was held together with bandages and armbands he had stolen, knives and razorblades slipping out occasionally; he still wasn't very good with knives.

He tapped his fingers against the grimy keyboard of the last working desktop in the library. He had finished Tennyson last week, ending on 'The Kraken', and wanted something else. Something interesting.

Lying in bed next to Neil, Andrew pretends to be asleep, although he is listening carefully for the other man's reaction. What would he say when he saw the tear stains on some pages, or the more recent brown stains. He remembers the only day he had been so careless clearly. He had finally found a poem that he could relate to.

It had been a bad day, he wasn't ready to go home.(No, that wasn't home, that was her house. This, this was home, curled up next to Neil, letting his presence act as an anchor.)

And so he had searched for the dreariest poem he could find. Something that said, yes life sucks, no it doesn't get better, if you want something you have to bleed yourself dry for it. And he had found it.

'Ode on Melancholy' suited his mood perfectly, and he read it three times in quick succession. It was only then that he realised he had been leaning on the page he planned on copying it onto, leaving smudges on the white page. He copied the poem out anyway. And though he didn't know it, it was the last one he'd see for quite a while.

Neil starts at the beginning, reading slower than Andrew, whispering unfamiliar words out loud. Several times he looks over at Andrew, but Andrew just screws his eyes up tighter, so Neil doesn't comment on it. Almost a week later, Andrew has a bad case of insomnia, and drags Neil out for a drive.

He stops in an abandoned parking lot, and they read to each other till Andrew can barely keep his eyes open.

He looks back sometimes, and admits that yes, life is hard. And people like him and Ms Julia, and now Neil had to go through a lot, but in the end, they turned, and the druid wasn't a figment of their imagination. Snuggling into Neil's neck, Andrew knows if he has to recommend poems to a child, he would choose the happy ones too. He wouldn't have five years ago, but he would now.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, how do we feel about a road trip for these two??  
> Hope you enjoyed! :)


End file.
